An Offer He Can't Refuse
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly makes Sherlock an offer he can't refuse. Can he? Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, was currently pacing around his flat wearing only pj's and a dressing gown, despite the fact that it was almost five o'clock in the afternoon. He had written another monograph, this one on the effects of carbon monoxide on post-necrotic tissue, which no one, of course, would read. He had packaged up the remains of twenty-two toes, which had been the experimental medium for this study, in anticipation of returning them to St. Bart's for appropriate disposal. He had made himself a cheese sandwich. Now he was bored. So it was with great interest that he read the incoming text message.

COME TO MY FLAT IF CONVENIENT - MH

He smiled at the thought that his pathologist was emulating his abrupt and demanding style.

IF NOT CONVENIENT COME ANYWAY - MH

It seems I've taught her too well, he mused. But he resignedly went to change into appropriate attire as he returned her text.

REASON?- SH

WE NEED TO TALK - MH

This was beginning to sound slightly ominous. He was certainly aware of the fact that Molly's birthday was the following day. She would be turning thirty-five, a birthday which he knew some women would would consider significant. Was Molly one of them? He sincerely hoped that she hadn't done of those foolish "life assessments" which he had heard about! Knowing his Molly, and her modesty, he could imagine that she would under-assess herself as much as she over-assessed him. Compliments came hard to him, unless he was throwing them about to gain some benefit for himself. But he had long since given up this behavior in regard to Dr. Molly Hooper. He would have to be sincere. Sincerity involved sentiment, which was definitely not his forte. He was not looking forward to this evening.

Dr. Hooper was on her third glass of red wine, and was beginning to feel the effects, so she sent another text.

BRING FOOD - MH

COULD YOU BE MORE SPECIFIC? - SH

SOMETHING THAT GOES WITH RED WINE. I'M ALREADY HALF-WAY THROUGH MY FIRST BOTTLE - MH

Now Sherlock was definitely not looking forward to the evening.

By the time Sherlock arrived at Molly's flat, pizza in hand, she had all but finished that first bottle but seemed far from drunk. Her demeanor was serious, but friendly. However, when she pointed to a kitchen chair, and told him to sit down, he felt a little like the subject of a potentially hostile interrogation.

"Sherlock, I've been thinking…"

"Congratulations, Molly, on taking up a new hobby!"

She glared at him. So much for easing the tension with humor, he thought.

"Shut up, Sherlock." He shut up.

Molly continued, "Sherlock, I think we should get married."

At this remark Sherlock felt that he really should say something, anything really. But he was speechless. He took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts, and spoke in what he hoped was a calm and totally dispassionate voice.

"Present your case, Dr. Hooper."

"Well, first there is the fact that you like me…"

"I don't believe I've ever expressed that sentiment."

"Not in words, you git. But you enjoy my company. If you didn't you wouldn't constantly visit my lab, even when you had no business there. We wouldn't share takeaway meals in your flat, or mine. We watch crap telly together. You wouldn't be here now if you didn't like me, at least to some degree."

"Molly, I've grown to like your cat, too. But I wouldn't propose an interspecies relationship!"

Molly opened the second bottle of wine, and continued, "You do realize, Sherlock, that there are certain people in this world who would consider any relationship between you and an actual human woman as an interspecies one? "

Sherlock had to admire her quick comeback. "Alright, Dr. Hooper, I will concede the possibility that I like you, if you can concede that we are, indeed, the same species."

"Now, we come to the professional aspects of the relationship. I am the best pathologist at St. Bart's…"

"Isn't that rather egotistical, Molly? You're beginning to sound like me."

"I'm merely quoting you, Sherlock. I have heard you describe me as such on more than one occasion. And we know you don't lie."

"Who told you I don't lie?"

"You did, Sherlock!"

"Perhaps I was lying."

"The point is moot, in any case, as I am the only pathologist at St. Bart's who will work with you!"

"I could easily find another…"

"I'm beginning to see your previous point. You're lying now!"

"Okay, I concede that you are, currently, the only one who will work with me. Are you seriously telling me that unless we marry, you will not work with me?"

"Yes, I will resign my position and move out of London. I have been offered a position in Glasgow."

"I hate Glasgow!"

"I know, Sherlock. Now, we move on to the financial considerations. We are currently paying rent on two rather expensive flats in the center of London. We could consolidate, and save considerably."

"The old 'two can live as cheaply as one' argument. You know that isn't entirely true. My food budget would certainly increase, as you seem to feel compelled to eat every single day, as I…"

"You spend more on takeaway food, and cab fares, in a week that I do on home cooking and tube transit, Sherlock, so let's not go there!"

Sherlock was growing more and more impressed with her logic, especially when she continued.

"And, let's face it, our clothing budgets are certainly not equal. Who needs custom shirts and silk underwear, Sherlock?"

He wondered how she could possibly know about the silk underwear. Had his former flatmate, and possibly former best friend been gossiping? He looked over at Molly, and the thought formed in his mind that he would not begrudge a pound spent on buying silk underwear for her! He must have let this thought make its way to his face, because her next comment seemed oddly on target.

"Why are you grinning, you git.? I assure you that I am being completely serious!"

"Sorry. Please continue, Molly."

"To sum up, neither of us is getting any younger. I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone. And I don't believe for one minute that you do, either. You are not the same man I met seven years ago. I know you are lonely since John left Baker Street…"

"Maybe I should get a dog?"

"When I move in, we'll have a cat. You've already said you've grown to like Toby, ruling out any sexual overtones…" (Sherlock really did admire her warped sense of humor.)

"You will continue to have the full use of the laboratory and morgue facilities at St. Bart's. We will combine our finances. It cannot have escaped you that I have a steady, and growingly substantial income, while your income is more sporadic in nature. You will have companionship, or, in your case, a babysitter. Someone who will watch over you, who will feed you, when necessary. I will nurse you when you are sick, and you will do the same for me. We will share living quarters. I do demand, however, that you not experiment in the kitchen or store your experiments in the fridge. We will need a separate space for that. We can talk to Mrs. Hudson…"

"How about the bedroom?"

"What?"

"Can I experiment in the bedroom?"

Molly knew that he was getting cheeky, trying to make her face redden, but she held on to her composure. "Of course, Sherlock, we can negotiate everything in that regard."

"Speaking of that regard, Molly, please clarify. Are we talking about a platonic marriage, or will there be sex involved. I know that in the past you may have fancied me…"

Molly took a really, really big gulp of her wine before she answered. "I know I'm not exactly a raving beauty, Sherlock, but I'm not exactly repulsive, either. I have all the right things in all the right places, and I believe you could become accustomed to those things in those places." She then drained her glass, thinking to herself as she poured another that her face must now be approximately the same color as the wine. Then she stole a glance at the man sitting across the table, only to find him grinning from ear to ear. He was really enjoying her discomfort, but she couldn't bring herself to stop now. "Any other questions?"

"Children?"

Molly gulped. "Yes, I want children. Do you object?"

"Perhaps we should discuss the number, Dr. Hooper. I would want at least one of each variety. That means at least two. Three or more if you don't deliver the appropriate mix with the first two tries. I know a couple who had eight boys, before the wife was delivered of a female. Are you prepared for such an eventuality?" Sherlock was almost laughing at this point.

"That certainly requires some thought, Sherlock. Please excuse me for a moment."

The arrogant son of a bitch actually winked at her as she stumbled to the bathroom. What had she been thinking? She had been sitting alone in her flat, not at all looking forward to her thirty-fifth birthday, when she decided to take inventory of her life. She had a great career. She had wonderful friends. But none of that mattered because she didn't have Sherlock Holmes. She had been in love with him for years, and at some point, possibly after a significant ingestion of liquid courage, she had decided to make him an offer. Because of this, he was now sitting in her kitchen, smirking at her discomfort and laughing at her ineptitude. She splashed water on her face, stood upright, took a deep breath, and prepared to face the worst he had to offer.

Sherlock, on the other hand, sat at the kitchen table in a state of disbelief. He knew exactly what kind of man he was. He was selfish, arrogant, egotistical, and very often, not very nice. You could also throw in the fact that he was an ex drug addict with an overbearing big brother and definite mommy issues. Lately he had been trying to behave differently, but he was aware of the fact that he had succeeded to only a limited degree. He was also fully conscious of the fact that his pathologist probably believed that the grin on his face was at her expense. Only he was knew it was one of unbridled happiness. What had he ever done in his life to deserve the likes of Molly Hooper? Absolutely nothing! The universe was certainly capricious. But he was intelligent enough to know that one should never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Molly took her seat across the table from Sherlock, much more subdued and much less confident than she had been. She looked over at him, still with a smile on his face, and opened her mouth to speak, all bravado gone, "Sherlock, I…"

"Yes."

Molly's mouth hung agape for a few seconds. She then pushed away the glass of wine still sitting in front of her. She wanted to be sober (or as sober as possible, given her previous alcohol consumption) to hear this. "What?!"

"Yes, Molly. I agree to your terms. Your logic is inescapable. With your permission, I'll text Mycroft immediately…"

"Mycroft?"

"Yes. As much as I hate to ask him for favors, he can cut through any red tape, and allow us to marry immediately. I was thinking tomorrow? It's your birthday, after all. One less date for me to remember if our anniversary is also your birthday. "

Molly was now staring at him as if she were hallucinating the entire conversation. Maybe she was. She reached across the table and pinched him. He yelped. Then she pinched herself.

"Dr. Hooper, I sincerely hope that you will refrain from physical abuse in the future."

Molly nodded, almost in a daze. She couldn't believe this was happening, thinking in the back of her mind that this was some awful joke. Even though she knew that there was a good chance she wouldn't like the answer, she had to ask the question. "Why, Sherlock? What are you really getting out of this?"

Sherlock's smile became even wider as he rose from his chair. He approached her slowly, lifted her to feet, and wrapped her in his arms, as her whispered into her ear, "I'm getting much more than I deserve, and everything I've ever wanted. You, Molly Hooper, you." He kissed her gently. "And, evidently, a cat!"


End file.
